


Don't you wanna know how we keep starting fires?

by vodkaanddebauchery



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Bucky is Good At Wires, Fire Safety Metaphors, Firefighter Bucky, Firefighters, First Time Blow Jobs, Humor, Love at First Fire Call, M/M, Natasha is devious, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romantic Comedy Syndrome, Steve is a snarky little shit, Surprise Angst, and Clint Barton is a human disaster, dumb firefighter jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaanddebauchery/pseuds/vodkaanddebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What happened?" she asks, following the source of the smoke to the kitchen, where all the windows are thrown open. The smoke stubbornly refuses to dissipate, probably suppressed by the humid morning air outside. The guy's still coughing, and every so often from behind him Bucky can hear the hiss of the inhaler as he fights to breathe.</p><p>"I tried to make breakfast is what happened," he says, between puffs on the inhaler. He's wearing, of all things, black lounge pants that proclaim him to be a Gryffindor, despite being approximately Bucky's own age. "Breakfast didn't cooperate."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't you wanna know how we keep starting fires?

**Author's Note:**

> sebastianastan on tumblr was lamenting the lack of firefighter!Bucky fics and I HAD TO ANSWER THE CALL OF MY PEOPLE...and then it got kind of out of hand, got angsty, and then got porny. Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine.  
> Title from Electric Six's Danger High Voltage because why not? 
> 
> Also I promise I'm going to be working on the fifty billion other fics and series I have going, but I've been under the weather for the past month and I needed to work on something that wasn't super high pressure. To anyone reading my other fics which haven't updated lately, mea culpa!

The call comes in at 6:23 in the morning - kitchen fire, nothing they haven't seen before a thousand times. Still, he's a little disgruntled to be called to duty as the station poker game reached a crucial juncture.

"Bunker up," Natasha smirks at him, pulling her turnout jacket on. The yellow garment dwarfs her, and clashes horribly with her hair. "I can beat you at cards later." 

"I was going to win it all back from Barton anyway," Bucky grumbles, tugging on his boots. 

Natasha swings into the driver's seat of the engine, which has been rumbling like a hungry dragon. "Well, not everyone can have a perfect poker face. Quit wasting time, Barnes." 

Over dispatch Coulson gives them direction and details - fourth floor of a crowded apartment building just a couple of streets away from Bucky's own neighborhood, call came in from a neighboring unit when the occupant started smelling smoke. It's a quick drive but Bucky has time to breathe, get himself into the zone. It's been a slow shift, thank god, but that doesn't mean he can let himself get complacent, and therefore sloppy. 

"How's the arm?" Natasha doesn't look at him while she navigates easily through the streets, steering the hulking engine through traffic at an intersection. His quiet must have tipped her off. He shakes his head, leaning back in his seat as much as his gear will allow. 

"It's fine, nothing to worry about."

The thing Bucky likes best about Natasha is that there's no fawning nor undue concern from her. She just makes a "hmm" noise and pulls up to the red-painted curb outside of the apartment building.

There's no elevator in the building so the two of them lug their heavy gear and PPE up four flights of stairs, surprising the hell out of a retiree couple and their yapping weiner dogs, clearly on their way out for an early morning stroll. 

"We've been here before," Natasha muses, not sounding the least out of breath as they round the third floor landing. "A couple of months ago. That guy thought he was having a heart attack -"

"Mid-coitus, I remember," Bucky grins, because how could he forget? 

"We should go say hi." Natasha opens the stairwell door, smirking. In the hall there's a pronounced smell of smoke in the circulated air, and just the sense memory alone wipes the smile off Bucky's face, all camaraderie melting away into training and instincts. "Which unit?" 

Over Natasha's walkie, Coulson says, "The call came from 410 but the smoke alarms in 407 went off." 

"Wonder if we'll ever be called to 420 for a blaze," Natasha deadpans. Bucky knocks his arm into her as he passes on his way to unit 407. The thick smell of smoke is much thicker the closer they get to the door, and he can hear clattering from inside. 

Bucky raps sharply on the thin door with his left hand and calls, "Fire department, is everything okay?" 

On the other side of the door there's another clatter and a muffled, "Shit," and footsteps approaching. The door opens and Bucky's greeted with a thick haze of gray smoke and a frazzled-looking blond guy sucking on an asthma inhaler. Bucky blinks in surprise. He looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over; Bucky's slid down fire poles bigger around than this guy.

"I told Peggy it was taken care of," the little blonde separates himself from the inhaler, running a hand through his bedhead and messing it up further. Natasha elbows Bucky aside, and pushes in past the little guy without so much as a by-your-leave. 

"What happened?" she asks, following the source of the smoke to the kitchen, where all the windows are thrown open. The smoke stubbornly refuses to dissipate, probably suppressed by the humid morning air outside. The guy's still coughing, and every so often from behind him Bucky can hear the hiss of the inhaler as he fights to breathe.

A cheap white plastic toaster on the counter, still belching smoke, is all the answer they need. The guy looks at it like it's personally insulted him and his mother. On the stove a frying pan contains a mess of eggs, also burned. 

"I tried to make breakfast is what happened," he says, between puffs on the inhaler. He's wearing, of all things, black lounge pants that proclaim him to be a Gryffindor, despite being approximately Bucky's own age. "Breakfast didn't cooperate." 

"Happens to the best of us," Bucky says in what he hopes is a conciliatory tone. Natasha is poking at the toaster with her thick work gloves. 

"You put this out yourself....?" she asks the little guy. Her pointed, trailing pause prompts him to nod. 

"Steve," he says. "And yeah, I did." 

Bucky whistles through his teeth. "And you didn't make it worse? I'm impressed." 

Steve stares up at him, tucking his chin a little like he's bracing to throw a punch. "Well, thanks, I guess. I'm glad I didn't burn my building down too."

"You didn't panic and throw water on it, is what I meant," Bucky says, wincing. He's seen more appliance fires spread by frantic water-throwing than anything else, no matter how many PSAs or fire safety tip letterboards the station puts up. In an apartment this size, it'd have spread across the kitchen and into the hall before the engine could even arrive. 

"No extinguisher foam," Natasha adds. "So if you did that without an ABC extinguisher, good on you." 

The little guy's stance and face soften. He relaxes marginally. "Sorry if I was short, I just." He runs fingers through his hair again, and it actually sticks up this time. Bucky kind of wants to smooth it back down. "It's been a long day already." 

"I'll bet," Natasha says, just as there's a light knock on the open door, and in walks one of the most beautiful women Bucky's ever seen - and that's saying something, because he works with Natasha and Hill. She enters without even announcing herself, walks into the kitchen, and chucks Steve lightly on the shoulder. 

"This looks a damn sight more serious than 'I have it under control, Peggy,'" she says. Her voice is crisp, clearly accented. 

"I did!" Steve protests. She raises her eyebrows, taking in the smoke and the two firefighters in full kit standing in his kitchen. Then she looks pointedly at the inhaler still in Steve's hand. Bucky fidgets through the awkward moment. Natasha's still messing with the toaster.

"Well, seeing as how your kitchen is filled with attractive firefighters, I'd say the day is not a total loss," she says, and Steve turns bright red. Natasha doesn't chuckle, bless her, but the corners of her mouth twitch. Bucky coughs. He can blame it on the smoke. 

"Peggy!"

"Sorry about the fuss and bother," says Peggy to the two of them. "And thank you for responding so quickly."

"It's really no trouble, miss, it's our job," says Bucky, feeling a little ubiquitous while Natasha's messing around with the appliance. 

There's a _click_ and Natasha plucks what looks like two hockey pucks from the jaws of the toaster. "Well, this seems to be your issue, Steve," she says drily. She shoves them at Bucky. "Peggy, can I talk to you in the hall? I just need to collect a few more details and call them into dispatch." 

"Of course," says Peggy smoothly, and they exit. Steve's eyebrows shoot up the second they leave the room.

"Quite a partner you got there. I thought that lady firefighters were usually a little..." 

"Bigger? Don't be fooled. Natasha can and will bench press me without breaking a sweat," Bucky says, smiling. "Quite a lady you got there, too." 

Steve blushes again. "Not any more, but she looks out for me." 

"Oh? Sorry to hear that," Bucky says, because he is. Steve shrugs. "It's okay. We function better as friends, she'd be the first to tell you." He crosses his arms over his thin chest, surveying the kitchen. His ragged t-shirt is oversized and reads, in fading print, _Artists: We'd like you better if you were naked._ Bucky's eyebrows raise of their own accord - glancing around the still-smoky apartment, there's art everywhere on the walls, and a huge easel surrounded by a drop cloth set up in the living room. 

"Nice shirt," he says. Steve glances down, like he didn't remember what he was wearing. 

"Oh, Jesus Christ - I don't actually wear this in public," he says, flustered. "My friend just thought it'd be a hilarious birthday gift."

"I get that," Bucky nods, wincing. "Every year for Christmas my sister gets me one of those sexy firemen calendars." 

It's Steve's turn to raise his eyebrows, and Bucky suddenly feels very self-conscious. He looks down at his hands and realizes he's still holding the blackened toast. 

"Huh. Well, if you were hoping for Cajun-style," he offers weakly. It's a terrible joke, but Steve surprises him by cracking a little grin. 

"You know, I thought the same thing myself," Steve says. "One of those surreal little "is this really happening I better make a joke about it" things." 

Bucky laughs. "I have those all the time, comes with the job." 

"Oh really?" The way Steve says it, he makes it sound like a friendly challenge, calling Bucky to the carpet. Bucky kinda likes that, all five-foot-something confrontation. He's about to launch into one of his better stories (the one involving Clint wishing for a firehouse dog and rescuing a dog from a warehouse fire not an hour later), when Peggy calls from the front door. 

"Hey Steve, come here for a moment?" 

"Yeah, sure thing," Steve calls back. He gives Bucky a sheepish little grin. His gaze lingers, just for a moment, before he walks out. 

Bucky is still holding that damn toast and wondering what to do with it when Natasha sidles back in. 

"Everything's called in and taken care of," she says. "All we really need to do is make the kid promise to get a new toaster and a kitchen extinguisher. Hungry?" 

"Starving," Bucky says. It's past six-thirty; surely someone at the station will be making a huge breakfast for the crew before the shifts change and everyone goes him. As if on cue, beneath the layers and layers of PPE, his stomach rumbles audibly. 

"Well, too bad for you," Natasha says, adopting a more businesslike tone because Steve's just walked back in. "Looks like there's no further issues, but Barnes here is going to stay behind and examine the wiring in your kitchen to make sure that there's no possibility of an electrical short causing the fire, maybe help clean up the mess too." 

Bucky stares at her. "Am I?" 

"Yes, you are," she says. 

"If that's the case, I'll go put on some actual clothing," Steve says with a self-depricating smile, and exits stage left, shutting the bedroom door behind him. 

As soon as the door is closed, Bucky whirls around - difficult to do with the heavy coat. "Natasha, what the hell?" 

"He's cute, you should talk to him." Despite being six inches shorter than him, Natasha can be very intimidating when she unleashes the full force of her glare on him - which she is now. 

"I've been talking to him," Bucky says despairingly. "He is also 112% straight, minimum."

Natasha shakes her head. "Bullshit, he keeps checking you out. I call 50-50, at least." 

"Are we really betting on someone's sexual orientation while they are in the other room?" Bucky drops his voice, hissing. He jabs the toast at her. "We are on duty!"

"It's six-fifty-eight, technically we're only on duty for two more minutes," she points out, knocking his hand away. "Make a move or so help me I will go grade school playground and tell him you think he's cute."

"I don't!" Bucky squawks, belatedly remembering to keep his voice down. Natasha arches a single, devastating eyebrow, and he feels himself cave like a Florida sinkhole. "Well."

"Make him breakfast and tell him you think his eyes are pretty," she prompts. "And take the coat off, it's a bonerkill."

"Is not." 

"Me, Clint, and the entire legion of male dancers dressed as sexy firefighters would beg to differ," Natasha says dryly. "Anyway, it's past seven, I'm off shift. I am going to go home and shower and sleep and have lots of sex with my also off-shift husband." 

"God, I hate you. This is worse than the left-handed smoke shifter shit you fed me my first day," Bucky scowls. He's still holding that damn toast, and a hell of a grudge about that.

"That was years ago, Barnes."

"Yeah, well, I hold a grudge."

"If I get you laid you're forgiving me that snipe hunt." She stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Have fun. Give me or Clint a text if you need anything. Use a condom."

"Jesus, Natasha -"

"Who's using a condom?" Steve pipes up. His voice is a little bit clearer, probably from getting some fresh air in the hall. Bucky suppresses a groan at his awful timing. 

"Metaphor. Nice to meet you, Steve. Be safe," Natasha says, smiling brightly on her way out. Bucky kind of hates her, leaving him floundering like this. "Yeah, uh. Fire safety metaphor. For. For an extinguisher." 

Looking confused, Steve points out, "I thought the point of a condom was to use it? I think you guys would prefer me to not have to use an extinguisher unless the need is dire?" 

From the hallway, Natasha cackles loudly. Bucky really does hate her. "Well, it's like - like an umbrella, too? If you have one you won't need it or - I'm going to look at your wiring now."

"Is that a metaphor too?" Steve asks, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I'm sorry, I won't give you shit. Thank you for staying behind - is there anything I can get you? Coffee?" 

"Coffee would be great," Bucky groans. He drops the toast into the trash, finally, and sets the recalcitrant demon toaster next to the trash can. Off to the side, Steve bustles about with the coffee maker, chatting all the while Bucky stares at the wall the toaster was plugged into. "Coffee's really the only thing I'm actually good at - I thought I was decent at making toast and microwaving oatmeal, but I guess this entire morning just proves me wrong." 

Bucky waves a hand. "Happens to the best of us. I actually have a buddy down at the station who manages to set soup on fire if Natasha's not watching him." 

"Another of those "this is surreal but I'm going to joke about it" moments?" Steve asks wryly, flicking the coffee machine on. Bucky nods. They never let Clint forget that he, a firefighter, managed to set a liquid aflame. "That whole day has gone down as legend in the annals of station lore."

When he laughs, Steve - well, there's really no other word for it: He goes from cute in a tiny ruffled college kid sort of way straight to beautiful. Bucky returns to staring at the outlet: It's making a little D= face that kind of sums up Bucky's oh-shit-Natasha-was-right feelings at the moment. "Wiring," he says, trying to remember everything from Fire Tech. "Wires. Wires, wires, wires......wires." 

"There are wires in there, yes," Steve says, bemused. He pours coffee into a chipped mug. "Milk?"

"Thanks," Bucky says. He wonders how long he's supposed to keep up the pretense - and so he jumps a little when he turns from the wall to find Steve standing there, offering him the coffee. "How are the wires?" 

"....wiry," Bucky hazards, taking the coffee. It's not the stomach-melting firehouse swill he's come to know and love, but it's good. "Yep, I think your wiring's all clear." 

He remembers Natasha's advice, and drapes his coat over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. 

"Oh, you're staying?" Steve's entire face looks like he's just been given Christmas a few months early. So yeah, point to Natasha, the coat might have been a bit of a bonerkill. Bucky nods, sipping his coffee. 

"I'm off shift now, might as well help salvage your morning because it's too late to salvage the toaster. You got work?" 

"Not until later." Steve glances back at the door, then when he thinks Bucky isn't looking, sneaks a sidelong glance at him through his eyelashes. Bucky clears his throat and pretends not to notice, but the back of his neck is starting to feel distinctly hot beneath his collar. Between work, the gym, work, station fundraisers, and work, well - it's been a long time since Bucky's been in prolonged contact with someone who's taken an active interest in him - drunkenly flirting with both Clint and Natasha at the black tie fundraising function didn't count, after all. "Will you be able to get home?" 

Bucky waves a hand, opening and rooting through Steve's fridge. The carton of eggs is half gone; he pulls that out along with a block of cheddar cheese that's starting to go stale and a decimated loaf of whole wheat bread. "My place is just a few streets up; I can walk." 

Not sounding convinced, Steve presses, "Are you sure?" as Bucky opens drawers, looking for silverware and a grater. He finds them with a triumphant noise. "Positive. I was gonna go to the gym today but hauling my gear a few streets will basically be the same thing, right?" 

Steve plops himself down at the kitchen table while Bucky moves about the kitchen, pulling together a mass of scrambled eggs and toasting the bread under the broiler - no smoke this time. "I'm gonna be honest, I'm kind of jealous."

Bucky pauses in pulling the butter out of the fridge. "Why?"

"Just, what you do. The strength that's involved, how much energy you have to exert, all the physical training." There's a self-conscious edge to his little laugh. "You might not have noticed but I'm not a prime physical specimen. Also, the whole asthma thing." 

"Did you want to be a firefighter?" Buck asks. He hip-checks the fridge door shut and goes to tun the heat off on the pan of eggs, sprinkling grated cheese on them and letting it melt. But Steve shakes his head. 

"Army. My - my dad was in the army, and so it was something I always wanted to do. ROTC officer laughed me out of his office when I asked in high school, though." 

Bucky grimaces in sympathy. "That sucks, man. I'm sorry." Steve shrugs. 

"It's fine. Mom encouraged me to go for the art thing, anyway." 

"Smart lady. Just from looking around the place I can tell you're good at it - and I'm not blowing smoke out my ass, you really are."

"Is that standard fireman humor?" Steve asks wryly as Bucky plates the eggs and toast, and then goes back to the fridge because he saw Steve had a bottle of ketchup and he is a heathen. Sliding a plate onto the table in front of Steve, he doesn't miss the way the little guy's face lights up all over again. "Eat up, you're long overdue for some breakfast."

Steve makes a little - there's no other word for it, it's a moan when he takes the first bite of eggs. " _Jesus_ ," he breathes. "How are these so good?"

"You make breakfast for a group of hungry firefighters, you get really good at eggs really fast." Bucky sits down and tucks in himself, coating his eggs in ketchup and scooping them up with toast. He's hungry enough to forget some of his table manners, but then again Steve doesn't seem to be holding back either. "Slow down there, you'll choke."

"If I had a dollar for every time I heard that in art school," Steve says, and Bucky actually does choke at that. Across the table, Steve chews and tries not to look too proud of himself. (He fails.) "You need the Heimlich?" 

Bucky pounds on his chest, and it's a while before he can respond beyond coughing pathetically. "Normally it's me asking that."

And then Steve almost makes Bucky choke again, because he gives him another little sidelong glance through his lashes, one which he makes no attempts to disguise this time. "I'm also CPR certified, if you need mouth to mouth." 

Distinctly hot beneath the collar again, Bucky (heathen!) wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries not to stutter. "If only all first responders were as put together as you are -" 

Steve's lips curl up at the corners; his smile is sweet and so fucking flirtatious that Bucky doesn't even know what to do with himself - this is crazy, this is crazy, he thinks, and he's the man who earns a paycheck running into burning buildings, but one of them leans forward and the other rushes to catch up....

"I'm a mess," Steve breathes against Bucky's lips, a fraction of an inch apart. "I'm not put together at all."

"Less talk, more mouth to mouth," Bucky says, feeling a little loopy, and then their lips are together, warm and dry but still soft, tentative. He hears Steve inhale sharply and then there are hands on his suspender straps, yanking him forward across the table and his elbow definitely flies into the puddle of ketchup on his plate, but he doesn't give two shits because this is his first kiss in far too long, and it's with a guy he met not an hour ago who can't make toast and he is so, so okay with all of it.

Just looking at Steve, at first glance, would have you believe that he'd be soft and passive, but talking with him and feeling the burn of that razor-wit gave Bucky all the warning he needs: Steve is anything but passive, parting his lips against Bucky's and pulling him closer. 

They both taste like breakfast and coffee and it should be gross, but it's not. Steve runs his tongue along Bucky's lower lip and then, because he is still full of surprises, takes it between his teeth and tugs, and Bucky's vision may go a little white around the edges. He thinks he's gonna have to spend some time with his oxygen mask when they pull apart, because suddenly the air's being sucked out of his lungs.

Before he even knows what's happening, he's brought his hands up to Steve's shoulders. Steve's still got fistfuls of his suspenders, holding him surprisingly firm for someone almost half Bucky's size. Steve drags his teeth across Bucky's lips again before they part, air-starved. "You seem pretty put together to me," Bucky says. If he sounds a little dazed, well, he's only gotten four hours of sleep in the past day and just had his brain sucked out via his tongue, so who can blame him, really? "Also, A+ use of the uniform." 

Steve blinks up at him, red-faced - but Bucky doesn't think it's from embarrassment. "I figured suspender abuse would be standard for you."

"Surprisingly enough I think all of my exes lacked your kind of imagination," Bucky says, and Steve chuckles, "I hope I'm not setting too high of a standard for deviation, then," before kissing him again. He licks slowly into Bucky's mouth, taking his time this time around. Bucky leans forward a little, tipping his head to allow Steve better access. It's devastatingly slow and thorough - Bucky hasn't ever been kissed like this before in his life, by man or woman, and he's pretty sure he's going steadily weak in the knees. 

Among other things.

He kind of makes an embarrassing little moan when Steve does something both clever and wicked with his tongue and that seems to snap them both out of it. 

"Pretty sure I saw a porno like this once," Steve says, chuckling a little sheepishly. Bucky leans forward to capture his lips again, just a brief, sweet press. "I absolutely saw a porno like this once." 

Steve leans in and Bucky's sure he's gonna go in for another kiss but instead he just lowers his voice and says, "Are those the jaws of life in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" and Bucky can't help himself, he dissolves into helpless laughter, pulling back and scrubbing his forehead with his hands, because he's in one of the most high-risk jobs and yet _this_ might be the death of him after all.

 

For all the talk of fireman pornos, they don't actually go to bed together. Steve accompanies him back to his building at a quarter past eight, on his way to the bus stop for work - they part at the door with a brief, firm kiss that Steve has to stand on tiptoe for (which Bucky does absolutely not find endearing at all, nope) and watching his small figure disappear down the street Bucky feels that he's rather rudely back to reality.

Bucky putters. His apartment is a hopeless cause as usual, so he takes out the Swiffer and runs it over every flat surface without really even registering if the dust is gone or not. He cleans the toothpaste gunk out of the bathroom sink, and in the bathroom mirror sees the dark circles under his eyes, and how his lips are still slightly swollen. The phantom sensation of Steve's teeth dragging across his lower lip makes his skin tingle, and he maybe thinks about it in vivid, Technicolor detail in the shower.

Okay, maybe he thinks about it like. Twice. Three times at the most. 

After that he halfheartedly makes a last-ditch attempt at tidying before promptly passing out on the couch with SportsCenter running on the TV in the background; he only wakes up at six in the evening when his phone is buzzing insistently on the pillow next to his head. 

"I, for one, have had a lot of sex on my day off," Natasha announces when he picks up. "How about you?" 

Blearily, Bucky wishes he could flip off the phone and have her be able to see it (who is he kidding, she'd probably be able to anyway). "Fuck off, Romanov."

"At least tell us if you got to any of the bases," comes Clint's voice in the background, with a rustling of sheets. They must be in bed still. Bucky's nose wrinkles. "Third?" Clint hazards. 

"I just met the guy this morning, Barton." 

"Second?" he amends. "...First? Bunting?! Oh god, you didn't strike out, did you?"

Impressed as he is with Clint's extensive metaphor, Bucky is not taking this from a man who set soup on fire. It's been a while but his game isn't _that_ bad. He thinks. ....He hopes.

"I hate the both of you don't talk to me until we're all on call," he says firmly, and hangs up.

The apartment, well, it isn't getting any cleaner by itself, so he loads the dishwasher and pulls on his least-dirty pair of pants to go to pick up a few groceries for his mostly-bare fridge. It's a hardship, not being on duty and having other people worry about dinner when it's not your turn on the cooking rotation. 

He's mentally formulating a list on his way out of the building (eggs, pasta sauce, ground beef, salad mix) when he sees Steve on the front step, finger frozen over the buzzer for Bucky's unit. 

"I forgot to ask for your number," he says sheepishly. "I was seriously about to embarrass myself if you weren't the B. Barnes in the tenant listing." 

"Well, I forgot to ask for yours, so we're even," Bucky says. He still feels a little sleep-hazy and stupid, not the least because in the waning evening sunlight on his front step, Steve still looks disarmingly cute. Bucky glances at his long, graceful fingers and remembers the way they gripped onto his suspenders only that morning. He swallows. 

"I was just about to head to the store for dinner," he says dumbly. "You wanna go?" 

"Funny enough I was about to ask you if you wanted to go out," Steve says, brightening. "But I think we learned it's best if I leave the cooking to other people."

Grocery shopping with a man he met that morning is, amazingly, not awkward at all. Bucky's kind of shocked at how easily he and Steve fall into easy conversation walking up and down the aisles with plastic grocery baskets.

Bucky's track record with "people I made out with after knowing them for an hour" usually falls into the category of "never talked to them again," but it's like he and Steve share some sort of weird brain connection thing out of a scifi movie, because they keep going on and on and never exhaust a single topic. Even more shocking is the sheer level of physical comfort Bucky feels with him (well, logic dictates he'd have to be physically comfortable with Steve, considering they were playing Olympic-grade tonsil hockey). But it's....more than that, Bucky realizes. Picking over the selection in the meat fridges, Steve accidentally knocks his elbow into Bucky's left arm and Bucky is - he's okay with it. 

Okay, so he's really shocked.

Back at the apartment he makes Steve meatballs from scratch and they drink cheap red wine, chattering away all the while about everything - growing up in Brooklyn, Bucky's job (already established), Steve's job (part-time community center art teacher), and the wide variety of pupils Steve's had, ranging from the little kids in his finger painting class who called him "Mister Steeb" to retirees who expected Bob Ross and complained when they got a little five-something shit starter as an instructor. 

"And then there are the surly high school kids who make dicks out of clay in sculpture class when they think I'm not looking," he says, swirling his wine around in his juice tumbler (because Bucky actually doesn't have wine glasses, yes, it's established, he's a heathen). 

"What do you do?" Bucky asks, leaning back in his chair and feeling a slow smile spread across his face.

"Creep up behind them and tell them they need to make it bigger and more realistic," Steve says, all innocence. When Bucky starts wheezing with laughter he says, in mock offense, "It's a class that I am being paid to teach, I won't have them leaving a bunch of amateurs on my watch."

And that's the other thing - Bucky's felt himself laugh more today than he has in a long time. Bucky's an easygoing guy, mostly, but laughing hasn't come this easy in...a very long time. Not since....well. Bucky rolls his shoulder, trying to work out the constant knot. 

At half past nine Steve pulls his satchel over his shoulder, gazing up at Bucky in the foyer. His cheeks are pink from the wine and his eyes are crinkling with laugh lines at the corners. "I had fun." 

"Me too," Bucky says. He tries, god he tries, to not notice how very blue Steve's eyes are even in the dim light. 

"I really like talking to you."

"Yeah - yeah, I really like talking to you too," Bucky replies honestly. His hand is on the doorknob, and he's about to unlock it and see Steve out when - 

"God, I'm so terrible at this, I've thought about kissing you again all afternoon," he blurts out. Those eyes widen, whether in shock or relief Bucky can't tell, but that's soon enough answered when Steve's satchel hits the floor. 

" _God_ , me too," he says, and half a second later somehow they end up against the wall, kissing like they're making up for the hours apart. 

"I thought about you in the shower," Bucky says when they're en route down the hall to his bedroom, and immediately feels like a little bit of a slut. It's not his fault - somehow this guy completely destroys his brain to mouth filter. However he doesn't have to worry about it for too long because Steve's eyes go glassy, his breath a little harder. "Oh my god - tell me."

Bucky kicks the bedroom door shut behind them and immediately regrets not putting more effort into cleaning earlier. Laundry's stacked up in his hamper and his bed's unmade. Heathen? Heathen. He shakes his head and returns to the task at hand, which isn't so much a task as _yes please I volunteer as tribute._

"When you -" He has to swallow. "When you bit my lip the first time this morning." 

Stilling, hands in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, Steve looks like he's barely suppressing a shudder. "Your mouth is made for it." 

Bucky peels his Henley off and really hopes that in the dim light of his bedroom, Steve doesn't notice that his jeans are maybe a little more stained than he thought they were, that he won't look too hard at Bucky's arm. "Tell me more about my mouth," he says, wiggling out of the jeans and lobbing them in the general direction of the laundry. 

"It's a good thing I am the picture of a model citizen," Steve says, pulling off his sweater and undershirt in one go, "because if I weren't I would have broken every single public decency law on the bus to work just thinking about it." 

"Get over here," Bucky says, easing himself onto the bed and trying to arrange the sheets to a state of non-lumpiness. Steve obliges, all pale and lean when he curls up on the mattress next to Bucky and curls a warm hand around the back of his neck. He draws him in for another kiss, this one slower, more heated, meticulous. It burns Bucky up by degrees. It could go on for hours, days, and Bucky thinks he would still want more of the hot slide of Steve's tongue, the warmth of his breath, the way his eyelashes fan dark and long across his delicate skin in the darkness. When Steve bites his lower lip again, Bucky's eyes roll back with the sheer toe-curling bliss of it.

"Just so you know," Steve says between kisses, "I'm not usually like - like this." 

"Like what? A firefighter porno?" Bucky chases after Steve's lips, kissing down from his lips to his jaw and up to his ear, which he treats with a nip. "Because I'm not either." 

"And I'm not a - oh - I'm not a one-date-fuck-and-never-call-back sort of person, either," Steve says, distracted by the press of Bucky's lips and teeth to a very tender spot behind his ear. "Like - like now, I know where you live, and I want to - Jesus, I want to see you more."

"I know where you live too," Bucky points out, smiling against Steve's skin. "Pretty sure you'll be seeing all of me here soon."

Steve groans - in pleasure, and exasperation. "That was terrible - god, please do that again." 

Bucky does. He pushes his luck, distracting Steve with every dirty trick he remembers and a few he makes up on the fly, and relishes the feeling of that slender chest pressed tight against his when they switch positions, Steve straddling Bucky's hips with hands firmly on his shoulders. His sides heave when Bucky traces his fingers up the knobby lines of his ribs, and for a second fears of an asthma attack blot out the happy, horny haze he's currently half-gone in, before Steve snorts next to his ear and he realizes that he's laughing.

And because he's apparently going crazy today (in the best way possible) Bucky finds himself laughing too, despite not even knowing what they're laughing about in the first place. He tickles Steve's ribs again. He doesn't remember the last time he laughed during sex, doesn't even know if he ever has before. "What are we laughing at?"

"I was just thinking I should probably dig through my trash and frame those pieces of toast," Steve giggles, tilting his forehead against Bucky's. His eyes are still all blue and crinkly at the corners. "And send them to the Brooklyn Fire Department with a thank you letter."

"No, don't, Natasha will never let me hear the end of it if you do," Bucky groans - and then groans again when Steve latches onto his neck like a tiny snarky vampire. 

After that, there's considerably less talking, but Bucky still finds himself puffing breaths of laughter when Steve takes him apart with his lips and teeth and hands, running his short nails down Bucky's broader chest and soothing the red marks with kisses. 

It's not often Bucky's on his back for an extended period of time but for now he's content to lie back, lifting his hips and letting Steve strip him completely bare. Finding a rhythm is awkward at first but their bodies fit together perfectly and soon enough Steve is sliding between the press of his thighs, one hand on his knee, the other pressed to Bucky's heart to hold his balance. Hand working over his own cock, Bucky tries to match the pace of his thrusts, his inner thighs slippery with pre-come and sweat, before Steve knocks his hand away and takes over the job himself. 

Bucky's beyond words, beyond helpless laughter at this point. All he can do is breathe and feel, torn apart between the sensation of Steve's hand on his dick and his own hard length on his skin. That's how he comes apart - Steve's other hand pinning him down with bare minimum of force, his eyes intense in the dim light - Bucky's eyes slam shut and he gasps, shuddering, into completion, so far gone he barely registers Steve following over not five seconds later.

In the back of Bucky's brain he thinks he should get up, get a washcloth for them both, when he's a little more coherent. The insides of his thighs are sticky with sweat and Steve's cum; it itches as it dries. Steve himself rolled off and is panting up at the ceiling, tiny frame still quivering. 

"That was," he begins. 

"Like a firefighter porno?"

Bucky rolls over, running a hand up Steve's sweaty flank. His skin is fever-warm under Bucky's fingers. "Better, I think, but what do I know?"

Steve snorts. "Well if it counts for anything, I feel thoroughly doused." 

Bucky giggles again. Unhinged and delirious from happiness and the sheer ridiculousness of this beautiful man beside him and one of the best orgasms of his adult life, it's easy to forget the film of sweat and semen drying on his thighs when Steve's next to him, tugging the covers over them both, and resting his head on Bucky's right shoulder. 

 

The room's bright and Bucky jolts awake, mortified that the late alarm hasn't gone off and he's late for his shift - but the sleep-fog lifts and he realizes it's just the bedside lamp casting the room with a warm, dim glow, and the sensation that woke him was lips on his - 

He sits upright, but doesn't knock Steve away from his side. His scars are tingling like they never had, the thick ugly skin alight wherever Steve's lips have touched him. 

He's preternaturally aware of a trail of lingering warmth on the star on his left bicep, the marks of wet, soft kisses on each red point.

"Steve." His voice is thick. He can pretend it's just sleepiness. "Steve, what -"

"Ssh," Steve soothes. "I was just - you were having a bad dream. Shh." 

Bucky drags his hand across his eyes, rubbing the bleariness from them. Now that he's more awake and his brain's with the program, he remembers he really was. The flames felt so real - the weight of the beam an agonizing crush of flesh and bone - 

"Hey," Steve says sharply. His hands reach up and cup Bucky's cheeks, pulling his attention out of the blazing warehouse and back here, to the warm bed in his quiet apartment. "Hey, I'm here. What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," Bucky says. Steve frowns. 

"Bullshit. If you don't wanna tell me that's fine, but - if there's anything I can do -"

Bucky shakes his head. "I - " He can't. He can't, not yet. It's been so long since that call, since he woke up in the hospital with his arm feeling like it was still on fire, since the months of agonizing physical therapy and gritting his teeth against the differently-painful sensation of the tattoo gun, inking that stark red reminder of all he almost lost into his skin. 

"Buck, Buck, I'm here," Steve says, and Bucky might have made a noise because now Steve's on his lap, wrapping his slender arms around his neck and pulling him close. "It's gone now, Bucky. It's gone. You're safe. I'm here," he says, and he might not even know what he's saying - babbling the comforting placations of someone who has no idea what to do while the person they're sharing a bed with is having a freakout.

It's been so long since then. So long since he's dreamt of it. He doesn't pay the left arm any mind on the good days, despite the dull ache in his shoulder. If someone knocks into it or hits it without realizing he snarls, but usually he's fine. 

Usually. 

 

"What time is it?" He mumbles against Steve's skin. Steve is wrapped around him now, pressing kisses into the sweaty dark hair at his crown, brushing it out of his eyes. 

"4.46," he says. 

Bucky makes a noise. He's got another hour before he needs to be up, getting ready to report to the station for his next shift. Damn shame it seems he's going to spend it having a meltdown. 

"Can we turn the light off?" 

The click and following darkness is answer enough. Steve leans back to his perch on Bucky's lap, petting his hair and making soothing noises. 

And god, that's - Steve doesn't have to be here, Bucky would expect any normal person to abandon ship when his own particular brand of trauma reared its ugly head - not run toward it and kiss his scars as if he could heal them through affection alone.

But between the two of them, they might have a habit of running towards things any normal person would flee from.

"You don't gotta do this," he says against Steve's collarbone.

"Shut up and let me pet you," Steve says, combing his fingers over and over through the thick hair on Bucky's scalp. It feels nice. "I want to." 

"'m not normally this much of a mess."

"And I'm not put together like you think I am, you'll see," Steve says. He sits back, making sure Bucky's looking at him in the near-darkness. "But I'm not just gonna leave you like this."

Bucky's mouth twists, his skin prickling. He can't even bring himself to say thank you. Words still hurt, instead he surges up and hopes that Steve can divine his meaning from the press of his lips. Steve, bless him, doesn't ever seem to turn down a kiss, but after a moment he firmly presses Bucky back and makes sure he stays put. 

"Is it okay if I touch your arm?" he asks. "I - I should have asked first, but you were murmuring and I wanted to -"

"You're okay," Bucky says automatically. During a fundraiser he slugged that asshole Rumlow from Engine 275 in the jaw after he'd grabbed onto Bucky's bicep for some dumbass macho posturing thing; Natasha's really the only person allowed to touch his arm, and that was because she unpinned him and dragged him out in the first place. Until now. "You're okay, you can. I don't mind." 

"Are you sure?" 

Bucky nods minutely, and Steve stares at him for a long while, as if to make sure he's being honest. Something must check out. He slides off Bucky's lap and reaches a long, tentative finger to stroke over the outline of the star, then closes his eyes and follows with his lips again. 

Bucky's lost to shivers when Steve kisses the tattoo and each burn scar with careful, intimate attention. The nerves in his arm light up at the press of his lips, and Bucky's getting hard again, he's only human, but he doesn't actually want to get off. This feels different. He doesn't want to sully it somehow in a frantic press of bodies. 

But that's where Steve seems to be going, because he kisses down Bucky's arm, the inside of his elbow and each fingertip, before laving his tongue over the cut of Bucky's hipbone. A swift, heated glance is all the warning he gets before Steve shifts the tangle of sheets aside and kisses the head of his cock before swallowing him down. 

It feels like he might die. Their bodies moved perfectly together hours ago, and that has nothing on Steve's mouth, the way he uses his tongue to slowly dismantle him. He drags the flat of his tongue up the sensitive underside, tracing the thick veins with the tip of his tongue and drawing off just long enough to give Bucky a little breathing room, before diving back in and taking him down almost to the base. 

Hysterically, Bucky thinks about Steve's art school comment from earlier, much earlier, but Steve's not choking. He takes Bucky's dick like a professional, just the right amount of suction and pressure from his hand wrapped loose around the base, stroking softly what his mouth can't reach. Bucky pants and groans and it's not just his arm, his entire nervous system is lit up like Christmas, like a goddamn twelve-story building with a blaze in every window, and there's nothing he can do but paw at Steve's soft hair and try to hold on. 

Steve draws off again, sloppily kissing the crown of Bucky's cock and licking when a gush of precome drools out at the sensation. It's kind of embarrassing, Bucky's never leaked like a goddamn broken faucet before but Steve just licks him clean and goes back for more, slurping at the darkened head and tonguing delicately at his frenulum. 

"Steve, Steve, Christ -" Bucky fumbles, trying to reach for the back of Steve's head and getting his hand knocked away again for his efforts, trying to warn him. "Steve, fuck, _fuck_ , I'm gonna -"

Steve's eyes flick up toward him, locking on as he slowly and deliberately drags the tip of his tongue into Bucky's slit, and Bucky's fucking gone, whole body jolting as his balls tighten almost painfully, thick spurts of come hitting Steve's lips and jaw and Bucky's trembling abdomen. 

Steve lets him down gently. He kisses and pets Bucky until he's just this side of too sensitive, and tugs him down this way and that until they're laying face to face sharing Bucky's pillow. Unselfconsciously he wipes his mouth, and it's so alluring that Bucky's wrung-out body gives a feeble twinge of interest.

"Go back to sleep," Steve says soothingly, pushing Bucky's hair out of his eyes. It's Bucky's turn to frown. 

"I gotta be in at seven."  
Steve shakes his head. "Sleep before then. I'll wake you up."

"Mmm." Bucky closes his eyes when Steve starts petting his hair again. "Are you sure you don't want me to do you -"  
 "Christ, Buck," Steve says. His voice is sounding more and more distant. "Let someone else take care of you for a change, okay?" 

Well, he doesn't have to tell Bucky twice. 

 

To his credit he's only half an hour late for his shift,and it's his fault, not Steve's. 

Okay. Maybe partially Steve's fault. Bucky forgot how engrossing kissing someone goodbye could be when you know you're not gonna see them for another 24, hell, even 36 hours. 

Natasha's silence speaks volumes when he drags his sorry ass into the station with his PPE and equipment from yesterday, returning them to their designated spot in the engine room. 

"What," he says. 

"How was your day off?" she asks sweetly. "Did you see Steve?" 

"No," Bucky lies. It'll be easier to play this off as irritability. Can't let her think she's got the upper hand all the time, right?

Natasha's eyes widen fractionally. "Oh, really? That's a shame." She actually sounds disappointed.

"Yeah. He's cute," Bucky says offhandedly. And sweet. And kind. And thoughtful. And smart as a damn whip. And he can just about suck a guy's brain out through his dick - but hell if he's gonna let her or Clint know that. 

She leans in and for a second Bucky thinks she's gonna give him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder when she fucking jabs at the side of his neck like she's shanking him. He shrieks a little, because Jesus, she's sharp and it _hurts_. 

"You really need to be more careful cleaning your apartment on your days off," she says innocently, while he's rubbing at the sore patch on the side of his neck. "Vacuum cleaners can be so dangerous, and it looks like your neck got the worst of it." 

He can only stare at her as she sashays back to the kitchen, where Clint is supposedly cooking a huge pot of oatmeal (under careful supervision). So much for having something on her and Clint, but it's not a total loss: The oatmeal is surprisingly good, the morning is bright and warm, and Bucky can still feel every inch of skin Steve's kissed tingling beneath his uniform. 

A call comes in. Bucky bunkers up.


End file.
